The Raven
by AIs4Awsome
Summary: Something strange is going on in Tess' poverty stricken mountainside town; children go missing and are later found in the woods with their throats slit, drained of their blood and the local pastor has a dark secrete. Tess is just trying to get by and take care of her broken family but fear stalks her at every turn until she meets a strange boy in the forest.


Chapter One

When I heard it I was in the hollow stump by Bear Creek, at the spot where the deep pool is hidden by low hanging bushes and blackberry bramble, where the fishing is the best in the valley and only me and my younger brother Danny figured we knew of it. In the spring the stump blossoms yellow and purple violets but now, in late fall, the stump is coated blood red by the fallen leaves of the surrounding trees and reeks with the earthy stench of dirt and dying things. When I was younger I'd called it _my_ stump, the sacred place where I would store my few ilicit treasures; the lipstick I stole from Mom's purse when I was eight, the year before she lost her mind; the palm-sized wooden rabbit Uncle Charlie carved for me for my sixth birthday; the wild turkey feather I'd found on Ida Coldwater's property.

I sit here now, heart pounding loudly in my ears and with my knees pulled up to my chin, listening to the erratic cracking and crashing of bushes. A cobweb stretches over my face, a small family of ants has begun to roam across the folds of my jeans and I can practically _feel _the spiders crawling in my hair but I don't dare move. I close my eyes and count to twenty but still the crashing refuses to abate.

Leave. Leave. Leave. I pray silently, willing it away. White hot fear churns my stomach into something acidic and I fight back the sudden overwhelming urge to vomit. I clench my hands into fists and try to focus on my breathing in a desperate attempt to calm the panic rising inside me.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

Then finally,_ finally_, almost as sudden as it had appeared, I hear it move off again; no doubt heading back down the trail, back towards the hills.

I wait, still listening, until my legs cramp up and then climb out of the stump. I wipe the dirt off my jeans and begin raking my fingers through my hair to rid myself of any spiders. When I'm sure I've gotten rid of them, I look across the creek at the early morning sunlight glinting off the leaves of the trees and allow the silence to fill my ears. No voices echoing off the hills or saws cutting in the distance. Nothing but the small noises that make up the quiet; the branches of the trees creaking in the wind, the faint yip of a coyote, the gentle babbling of the creek. A raven gives a loud raw croak overhead and I jump, just about ready to leap back into the saftey of the stump.

"Jesus."

I turn and spy it perched on a pine bough just above my head. It's an odd color - white with black and midnight blue streaks; an albino. I watch as it hops down a branch and cocks it's head at me intellgently. God, I hate ravens. They're everywhere. In the forest, hanging around the town dump, scavenging for animal entrails at the hunting camp; you can't get away from them.

"Go away!" I shout at it, waving my arms spastically above my head. "Go on, now! Git!" But the stupid bird just gives another loud craaaaaaawk before turning it's head and beginning to preen at it's shiny feathers, completley ignoring me. I roll my eyes at it and walk over to the waters edge. I wash the dirt from my hands, acutley aware that it has stopped preening and has begun watching me again. Turning my back to it, I plunge my hands deeper into the creek bed, allowing the ice cold water to numb my fingers. It's only after I can't take the biting cold any longer that I pull my hands from the water and begin following the creek towards home.

Bear Creek is a shallow fast moving stream, filled with large smooth stones that I can skip across without getting my feet wet. Where it winds across the edge of our property the stream is overhung with hemlock, watercress and forget me nots. It is here, where the path takes a turn away from the creek and heads back towards the house, that I hear it again. I stop and hold my breath, listening. It could be anything; Crazy Hank, the shinny making hermit who lives up on Crows Foot Road, who sometimes goes hunting on our property. Or it could be a bear gone crazy, like that bear that killed Mr. Peterson last summer. Or it could be what I'd heard crashing in the bushes at the hollow stump.

Although I hike within the hilly range of Moose Valley and though I take Dad's squirrel gun almost everytime I leave the house, I still have a reason to be afraid, even here, by Bear Creek. Lena Turner - a girl only two years younger than me - was found in the woods with her throat slashed last month. It is because of this that with every rustle in the undergrowth I can feel my body begin to tense and with every crack in the bush I listen. Only this time, this time, the sound of something folliwng me becomes the gentle hushing of the grass behind me and I force myself to dismiss it as nothing more than my fears at play. I let out a shaky breathe and keep on my way towards home.

The first thing I see as I approach our property is meat. Deer carcasses, pale, naked and gleaming with fat, hang by thick rope from the sagging sapling limbs next to the meat shed by the house. Out of the corner of my eye, one of Dad's mangy old hunting dogs skulks out from underneath the porch and trots silently across the muddy yard, nose pressed firmly to the ground. It's swollen worm-filled belly swings back and forth like a pendulum as it begins circling hungrily round the shed. Heavy leaden-grey clouds loom glumly in the distance beyond the house and a chafing wind blows down into the valley, sending the skinned torsos twirling from the bare skeleton-like branches. Venison left to the elements for three to four days sweetens the meat all the way down to the bone, rounds out the flavor, Dad had said as he hung them up; yet another of his old hunting secretes completely wasted on me.

I shove the hood of my jacket over my ponytail and watch the dead animals sway drunkenly in the breeze. I shudder. It's only the last week of October but already feels like mid-December; this morning I'd woken up to discover the coming weather had frozen the wash hanging outside, turning Dad's t-shirts and Mom's elastic lined underthings into solid planks of ice. I'd stretched the clothes line into the kitchen and above the wood stove before daybreak, forced to dry each piece of clothing one at a time. I only got half way through Dad's shirts when I ran out of kindling. Considering Dad used up all the gas for the chainsaw, I'm going to have to split what I can with the axe before the first snow falls and winter blows it's way into the valley. Unsurprisingly, Dad hadn't cut any wood before he took off Friday morning for an impromptu "weekend with the boys"; meaning he's with Skinny Briggs and Carl Forrester at the abandoned hunting camp up on Ridgewood Point. He'd left only a little food and no money, but promised he'd be back soon with a truckload of meat that'd last us the whole winter. Dad has this annoying habit of uttering quick pleading promises that make it easy for him to be out of the door and gone or come back and be forgiven.

The screen door at the house gives a loud squeak and my ten year old brother, Danny, sticks his blonde head round the door frame, see's me walk across the yard towards the porch. His hair, long overdue for a cut, is a good inch too long in the front and hangs in his eyes, giving him a slightly dopey expression. He's wearing nothing but a pair of faded red long johns and a grin. Fidgeting from foot to foot, he raises his chin, gesturing towards the meat.

"Think Dad'd notice if we stole some for dinner tonight?" he calls.

"Probably."

"Even just a little?"

"Wouldn't doubt it."

"You sure? You know there ain't nothing in the pantry, right?"

"I know it."

"Maybe he'll come home tomorrow so wasted he won't notice..."

Quick as lightening, I hop up the porch steps and snatch his nearest ear and twist it, hard, watching his pale face screw up with pain. He begins swatting at me, skinny arms flailing spastically.

"Leggo, Tess! Jesus!"

"You don't even _think_ about stealing that meat." I hiss, twisting harder, "Or any of Dad's meat. You hear?"

I release him suddenly and he falls back against the door jamb, rubbing furiously at his smarting ear.

"I'm cold." he whines. "Is grits really all we got?"

"Just drown 'em in butter. We still got some in the fridge."

He makes a face.

"Nuh huh. Not since Thursday."

Fuck me.

He opens the door wide and I follow him into the house and down the narrow front hall into the cramped kitchen/den. Mom sits in her padded chair beside the pot bellied stove, rocking and staring vacantly into space. Her morning pills have turned her into a cat, a breathing thing that sits near heat and occasionally makes a sound. I can just barely hear her humming snippets of a nameless tune that starts and ends in shaky fits. Most days she's silent and still, a distant smile permanently plastered across her worn face that reveals little of the strange things going on inside her head. Other days, she's a wall of talk, whispering and muttering vague things under her breath. I used to think she was only talking to herself until I figured out that she was, in fact, holding a one sided conversation with her long dead sister. I like to think it's just her pills talking, mostly because I can't handle the idea of having the ghost of Mom's pretty dead sister in the house. Mom'd been pretty too, once, a long time ago, but now she's little more than a slowly decaying shadow, doped up and lost to the present, her mind broken up into a thousand scattered pieces.

Across from the stove, my six year old sister, Katie, sits on the plastic covered sofa with her plate in her lap, making little piles of charred grits with her fingers. Her dog, a three legged miserable little stray named Skeet, whines pitifully from underneath the ink stained coffee table.

"Katie Dawn, you stop playin' with your food and finish those grits." I say, ruffling her messy honey colored curls as I pass by her on my way to the sink to start dishes. " An' hurry up or you're gonna miss the bus."

"I don't wanna go to school." Danny says from the kitchen table. He leans his head in one hand and shoves his empty plate towards the middle of the table with the other. The heel of his palm pulls the left side of his mouth into an ugly sneer

"You're goin' to school, Danny."

"I feel sick."

"You ain't sick."

"I think I gotta temperature."

"Take a Tylenol."

Danny glowers at me while Mom begins singing softly to herself;

"_One I love, two he loves, three he's true to me...Over the mountains he must go because his fortune is so low. With an aching heart and a troubled mind for leaving his love so far behind..."_

"I don't wanna go to school." Danny says again, a little too loudly. Mom jumps, clutches at the sides of her chair.

"You're fuckin' goin' to school, Danny."

"You're fucking going to school, Danny." Katie parrots gleefully, slamming her fork against her plate. Mom flinches but doesn't make a sound. I walk over to Katie, place a finger under her chin, and tilt her face up so she has to no choice but to look me square in the eye.

"Katie, I don't _ever_ wanna hear you say that word again, understand?." I say, voice low with warning. She blinks once, twice.

"What word?"

I roll my eyes.

"C'mon, Katie. Don't you play dumb with me."

But she just looks up at me with her big blue eyes and chews her bottom lip and asks, "How come you get to say it an' I don't?"

I open my mouth but no words comes out. I'm completely stumped.

"Jesus, how many times do I hafta tell you not to swear in front of her, Tess?" I turn around and see my other sister, Willow, stomping noisily into the kitchen. I didn't even hear her come into the house this morning. She's got her fair hair pulled back into a loose, frizzy ponytail and she's wearing nothing but a pair of camo p.j. pants and an old sweat stained Deep River High hoodie. Willow is eighteen, only one year older than me, but looks to be going on twenty seven if all the makeup she's got spackled on her face is anything to go by. Kohl black eyeliner is all smudged up round her eyes, making her look as if she's half coon or something. Between the right crook of her arm and her jutting hip she balances her six and a half month old son, Nate; a tiny pink thing snuggled up in a blue Winnie the Pooh onesie.

Before I can reply Mom starts singing again, not at all soft this time.

"_They tell me he's poor, they tell me he's young, I tell them both to hold their tongue. If they could part the sand and sea then they could part my love and me..."_

I swear to God.

"Wanna help me get 'em ready?" I ask Willow, gesturing wildly at Danny and Katie, "Bus'll be along soon."

Without another word, she sets Nate up in the spare high chair in the kitchen and grabs Katie's two sizes too small winter jacket from the wooden bench in the front hall. She begins shoving her into it, muttering inaudibly under her breath. Danny sticks his tongue out at me but gets up and goes to the pile of laundry sitting in the basket on the other side of the stove. He sifts through it, searching for something to wear.

"These socks smell." he announces, holding up a pair of holey grey socks that may or may not have been white in another life.

"Just put 'em on. You're gonna miss the bus."

"No way."

"Put. 'Em. _On_."

"But they smell real bad."

"Danny..."

"I ain't wearin' no smelly socks." He says, crossing his scrawny arms stubbornly over his chest. He gives me a mean look, daring me to call him out.

"Danny, would you please, please, _please_, for the love of God, just put the fuckin' socks on! Could you do that, huh? They'll be in your boots anyway so it don't really matter."

"But..."

"Quit runnin' your mouth and put the damned socks on, Danny." Willow orders, putting on her best "Mom" voice while shooting me a pointed look over her shoulder.

"Alright,_ fine_." Danny grumbles, despite looking as if he'd rather eat an entire bowl of fish guts than put on those goddamned socks.

I let out a frustrated sigh and rub my dry, tired eyes. More often than not, I find myself worrying that by the time Danny's twelve any ounce of goodness in him will be sucked dry, replaced by hotheaded, boiling mean. So many Tassey kids have ended up that way before they even hit puberty, ruined by the poverty stricken environment in which they were raised. There are maybe sixty or so Tassey's - some of them by marriage - in Wendall County alone and more than half live precariously on the other side of the law. Despite our constant bickering, I hope to keep Danny in the minority.

I finish helping Willow tie up Katie's boots just in time to hear the school bus honking at the end of the drive.

"Come on, you two," Willow says, squatting in front of Katie on the grimy kitchen floor and tugging her hat further down over her ears . "Get your backpack's n' get on that bus, alright? An' I don't wanna see no funny business or nothin'."

Katie goes to make a run for the door but Willow stops her. "Go on and give Mama a kiss first."

Katie turns round, races back to the kitchen. She goes up on her tippy toes to give Mom a quick peck on the cheek. Mom doesn't even respond, just makes a low grunting noise. I look away, ashamed.

"Now get on." Willow says firmly, giving Katie a gentle push towards the door. She turns to Danny and places her hands squarely on her hips, Wonder Woman style.

"Come on, Danny, before Beth decides to drive off without you ."

"I'm goin', I'm goin;" he grumbles, pulling a shit brown colored hoody over his long johns. He's already squeezed himself into an old pair of jeans, ancient hand me downs from one of Bertha Coldwater's sons. I hand him my old hunting jacket from the coat rack beside the back door and he takes it from me without so much as a thank you. Willow follows him to the front door with his backpack.

I wait til the door slams behind him before I holler down the hall to Willow, "I'm gonna put another pot of coffee on. You want some?"

"Uh, Tess?"

"Yeah?"

"I think he's makin' a run for it again."

Shit. Shit. _Shit._

"You sure?"

"Yep. Looks like he's really bookin' it too."

I half run, half stumble to the front door, nearly tripping over Katie's rainbow xylophone lying in the middle of the floor. I look out the grime encrusted window; sure enough, I see my little brother running - no, _sprinting_ - down the muddy lane, towards the road . He flies right past the yellow school bus parked at the end of the drive, going just about as fast as his legs'll carry him. The hunting jacket is open and streams behind him like a camouflage cape. He turns and disappears behind the thick copse of spruce and pine at the end of the lane.

Before Willow can so much as say "Go", I'm in my boots and out on the porch. The screened door slams loudly behind me and a sudden cold gust of wind slaps me hard in the face. I take a giant leap off the front steps and land on all fours. Cold gravel stings my palms but I'm up and running again in less than half a second.

"Danny, you get back here!" I shout, sprinting to the end of the short driveway. The few kids on the bus have all gathered to the side closest to the road and are pressing their faces against the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the spectacle unfolding before them.

Naked trees and broken down fencing that line the road wizzes by me in a blur as my heavy boots slap loudly against the ground. I make a clumsy leap over a skim of black ice, nearly trip over my own two feet. My breath is already coming out in short, heavy gasps.

"Danny!"

He whips his head round, sees me, begins pumping his legs even faster. Unfortunately, not fast enough. I'm a good arm span or so away from him when I make the big leap and tackle him - running back style - to the ground, sending dirt and mud flying. We're both breathing hard and my lungs are burning and my legs are tingling and my heart is pounding loudly in my ears but I'm somehow able to flip him over onto his back and pin his struggling arms to the dirt road with my legs, straddling him.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I yell, panting hard. "Huh? What the _hell_ is wrong with you!?"

"Get off, Tess!" he just barely manages to choke out between ragged gasps. He continues to struggle, albeit unsuccessfully, beneath my grip. "You're really hurtin' my arms!"

"And you're really pissin' me off." I snap back. "You're damned lucky Dad wasn't here to see that little stunt you just pulled! He woulda been beatin' your ass black 'n blue right about now if he'd seen you runnin' off like that!"

Danny stops struggling long enough to spit out a hate filled "Fuck you, Tess."

Without thinking, I grab his shoulders with both hands and shake him, hard. His head snaps back, nearly smashing against the cold hard ground.

"You take that back, Danny."

"Nuh huh."

"You take that back right this minute." I hiss, pushing all my weight down into my legs.

"No!"

"Take it back or I'll tell Dad when he gets home."

"I ain't takin' it back."

We glare at each for twenty seconds or so in total silence. I can feel my legs beginning to cramp up on me but I don't dare move.

"Do you want that whole goddamned bus over there see you get beatin' up by a girl?" I ask finally, "'Cause I'm sure as hell that they'd all really love to see that. Probably won't let you ever forget it, neither"

When he doesn't immediately answer I press down even harder on him.

"No!" he gasps suddenly, voice thick with pain.

"No, you won't take it back or no, you don't wanna busload of kids seeing the shit get kicked outta you by a girl?"

"I dunno! Just git off me, Tess!"

"Then take it back!"

"You're gonna snap my arms off!" he screams.

"Four magic words, Danny." I say, leaning down and panting into his ear. "Just say the four magic words and I'll get off."

"Okay fine! I take it back! Just _get off_, Tess!"

"What's that? I can't hear you..."

"_I can't feel my arms_!"

"_Ehhhhn_, wrong answer." I say cruelly, earning me another glare.

"_I take it back!_"

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I said I take it back! Okay? _I take it back_! Just please, please, _please_ git off!"

I hesitate for a moment, pretending to consider. "If I get off do you promise not to run away again?"

"Yes!" he gasps, his face beginning to turn a dark shade of crimson from the cold and the pain.

"And do you promise to apologize to Beth for holdin' up the bus and wastin' her time?"

"Yes!"

"Good boy." I say, and give him a brisk slap on the shoulder.

I roll off him and shakily rise to my feet. I wipe the loose mud and dirt from the knees of my jeans and help Danny up. I'm half expecting him to take off running again but surprisingly he doesn't; instead he straightens up, pushes the hair out of his eyes and begins rubbing his arms frantically, almost desperately, trying to get the blood flowing in his arm again. I roll my eyes.

"I wasn't pressing on 'em that hard."

Danny turns and shoots me a look. I reach out and gingerly wipe the mud off the back of his coat but he pulls away from me, sulking.

"Alright, c'mon. Get your bag and get on that bus. You don't wanna make everyone late."

Danny hesitates, suddenly looking nervous. "You ain't gonna tell Dad are you?"

"Not this time, no. But if you try an' get outta going to school again I sure as shit will."

Danny's eyes dart back and forth, seeming to consider this.

"Now git." I say and give him a small kick in the rear. "An' I'll see ya'll after school."

He doesn't say anything, just takes off running back down the road in which we'd come, without so much as a backwards glance. I follow at a walk and try to ignore the cramping in my legs. I look ahead down the rutted road towards Danny's fast moving figure and the still waiting bus. Just beyond the bus, the lean shadowy outline of a coyote skitters out from the direction of Henry Wasson's cow field before disappearing into the bush on the other side of the road.

The sky overhead- now completely bloodless and drained of color - presses in on the shallow valley and begins to open up with early snow.

**A/N: Okay so I decided after much deliberation to join two separate stories I was planning out into one uber story. One idea I only recently started working on and the other idea has been in my head for a few months that I sort of stowed away for later. Anyway, it's a bit dark and I may have to rate it M for mature later as there is violence, cursing and mature themes and deals with some pretty heavy physiological issues. Anyway PLEASE read and review! I'll only post it on here if I know people actually want me to continue with it. **

"_Go an' tell that long tongue liar/ go an' tell that midnight rider/ tell the rambler, the gambler, the backbiter/ tell 'em that God's gonna cut you down_." - God's Going to Cut You Down by Johnny Cash

CHAPTER ONE


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